


Stupid, Stupid Hope

by orphan_account



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Canon Divergence, Gen, Hobo Stan, Hurt/Comfort, I'm Sorry, Mildly Explicit Language, Prostitution mention, These poor boys, Vomit Mention, Young Stan Twins, ahh the sweet smell of stangst, mild violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-12
Updated: 2017-05-18
Packaged: 2018-10-31 01:59:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10889388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Stan is called to Gravity Falls via postcard. Why he goes there, he doesn't know. (Okay, he knows why. Stupid, stupid hope. That's why.) But when he gets there, he finds out that Ford just wants him to go away again. (He's always known he was worthless but it still stings.) They fight (it's painful, he didn't expect Ford to be that strong), he's burned (hot pain hot pain hot pain), and then Ford is left with an unconscious and underfed twin brother. Why he keeps him around, he doesn't know. (Okay, he knows why. Stupid, stupid hope. That's why.)





	1. Arrival

**Author's Note:**

> OOPS I STARTED YET ANOTHER FIC I'm sorry guys.  
> Please read the tags!

Stan doesn’t know why he does it. He doesn’t know why he drives all the way from New Mexico to Nowhere, Oregon. In the middle of a snowstorm. With no money and a bunch of goons hot on his tail.

(Okay, he knows why he does it. He knows why he doesn’t just toss the postcard in the trash. It’s all because of stupid, stupid hope.)

His car slides on the snow-covered road. It’s cold in there; he can see his breath. He’s pretty sure that’s frost on the sleeve of his (thrift store, dingy, patched-up) coat. But for some reason he doesn’t care.

(PLEASE COME. That’s why.)

He’s pretty sure his hands are frozen to the steering wheel. The heater isn’t working. He meant to get that fixed. He didn’t.

His eyes are starting to close.  _ Stay awake stay awake stay awake. What use are you to him if you’re wrapped around a tree? _ S t a y a w a k e.

He almost misses the turn. Gopher Road.  _ Stay awake stay awake stay awake. _ He hasn’t slept in almost two days, and hasn’t eaten more than a few potato chips in three. He needs to sleep needs to sleep needs to

Find his brother.

And that’s what keeps him going.

*

618 Gopher Road is a house basically made out of triangles at the end of a long, gravel road a few miles outside town. The snow is falling thick and fast, but doesn’t cover the  _ KEEP OUT! _ signs, or the weird glowy antennae that sit crookedly atop the house, or the--is that  _ barbed wire? _ Stan shakes his head. His brother is  _ weird. _

He sits in his car (refrigerator) for several minutes, trying to pluck up the courage to get out and knock on the door. Finally he is shivering too hard to ignore his need to  _ move _ and with trembling hands opens his car door and staggers out into the wintery evening.

When he knocks on the door first he hears nothing, and then he hears silence, and then he hears a lot of things crashing to the floor and his brother’s voice--is that his brother’s voice?--shouting something that sounded like swear words except Ford didn’t swear, he was such a goody two-shoes back in Glass Shard Beach. And then the door is flung open and there is something right in front of his face that is (sharp sharp danger weapon? weapon run hide) held in his brother’s shaking grip as he shouts “Who is it? Have you come to steal my eyes?”

Stan staggers back, collects himself (it’s your brother it’s Ford he won’t hurt you not really he’s just scared), smirks, says sarcastically, “Well, I can always count on you for a warm welcome.”

Ford’s eyes (bloodshot, ringed with dark circles, one is irritated) shift nervously from one place to another, peering behind Stan. “Stanley,” he gasps, “did anyone follow you? Anyone at all?”

_ Not even a hello? What happened to him? _ “Eh, hello to you too, pal.” Ford drags him inside suddenly, eliciting a cry of surprise from Stan, which he repeats when there is suddenly a bright flash of light in his eyes. He shoves Ford away, blinking away the spots (like when he was being questioned in Columbia). “Hey! What is this?” He’s angry now.

But the anger dissipates a little bit as Ford pulls his trench coat tight around him, like a security blanket, and says, “Sorry. I just had to make sure you weren’t...uh, it’s nothing.”  _ Like hell it’s nothing, _ Stan doesn’t say.

“Come in, come in,” Ford adds, as if it’s an afterthought, before darting further into the recesses of his very untidy home.

Stan is very, very concerned. “Uh, are you gonna explain what’s going on here?” A sudden memory, and he almost-smiles. “You’re acting like Mom after her tenth cup of coffee.”

Turning, Stan sees that Ford is clutching a book to his chest. “Listen, there isn’t much time. I’ve made  _ huge _ mistakes and I don’t know who I can trust anymore.” His wide, frightened eyes look over at a skeleton--yeesh--and he reaches out a six-fingered hand to turn its head away. This seems to provide a little comfort somehow.

If Stan could feel more concerned, he would. “Hey, uh, easy there….Let’s talk this through, okay?” (I don’t know what I can do to fix this but I can try, you’re my brother)

Ford shakes his head, turns away, heads even deeper into the cabin. “I have something to show you. Something you won’t believe.”

(Won’t believe, what does he think, I’ve just been sitting in a cave somewhere, I’ve seen things  _ he _ wouldn’t believe)

He tries not to let irritation creep into his tone. “Look, I’ve been around the world, okay? I’m sure whatever it is, I’ll understand.”

Ford nods, shrugs, says, “Come along,” and leads Stan (who is  _ not _ swaying and stumbling, thank you) down a flight of stairs (lit by a lantern of all things), into an elevator ( _ that _ trip down was awkward), and into a huge, spacious room.

Inside the room was a gigantic, inverted triangular monolith, with a gigantic hole in the center.

(What the f--) “There is  _ nothing _ about this I understand,” Stan says honestly.

“It's a trans-universal gateway,” (what?) “a punched hole through a weak spot in our dimension.” (Oh.) “I created it to unlock the mysteries of the universe. But it could just as easily be harnessed for terrible destruction.” (Of course it could.) “That's why I shut it down and hid my journals, which explained how to operate it. There's only one journal left. And you are the  _ only _ person I can trust to take it.” He hands Stan a book, a thick red tome with ragged pages, a gold six-fingered hand on the center of the front cover, and a thick black “1” painted on the gold foil in dark ink. Stan stares at it, then at Ford.  _ I don’t understand. _

“I have something to ask of you,” Ford says, turning to look at the portal. “Do you remember our plans to sail around the world on a boat?” (Of course Stan remembers, it’s a memory that’s kept him alive more nights than one) Stan smiles, hope rising in his throat.

Ford turns to look at Stan. “Take this book, get on a boat, and sail as far away as you can! To the edge of the Earth! Bury it where no one can find it!”

And then the hope turns into bile, angry and bitter and sour and Stan’s face twists and his heart twists and it  _ hurts _ and he shouts, “That’s  _ it? _ You finally want to see me after  _ ten years _ and it’s to tell me to get as far away from you as possible?” He wants to scream, to hit Ford, to curl into a ball and sob like a child. But he doesn’t. He stands, defensive, defiant.

Ford’s face is almost desperate. But that doesn’t matter. So is Stan. “Stanley, you don’t understand what I’m up against! What I’ve been through!”

Now Stan  _ really _ wants to hit his brother. “No, no. You don't understand what  _ I've _ been through! I've been to prison in three different countries! I once had to chew my way out of the  _ trunk of a car _ !” (Not a pleasant memory, his gums ache in sympathy) “You think you've got problems?  _ I've got a mullet, Stanford! _ ” (He’s not fashion-conscious, but he knows he needs a haircut) “Meanwhile, where have you been? Living it up in your fancy house in the woods!” (At least you have a house you self-centered bastard) “Selfishly hoarding your college money, because  _ you only care about yourself _ .”

(Stan doesn’t know why he hasn’t already flown at his brother, brass knuckles at the ready)

(Okay, he knows why. Stupid, stupid hope)

(Also his eyes are closing and he’s afraid he doesn’t have enough energy to beat a desperate reclusive maniac)

“I’m selfish?” Ford says quietly, dangerously. Then, louder, “ _ I’m  _ selfish, Stanley? How can you  _ say _ that after costing me my  _ dream school? _ ” He flings his arms wide open. “I’m giving you the chance to do the first  _ worthwhile _ thing in your life,” (ouch, that stings, although he’s known he was worthless for years) “and you won’t even listen!”

Something snaps inside Stan. Maybe it’s hunger. Maybe it’s exhaustion. Maybe it’s the feeling of all his hopes being dashed. Maybe it’s the pent-up sorrow and grief that his own twin doesn’t even love him. But he fumbles in his pocket for a lighter, his voice hard as he says, “Well listen to this; you want me to get rid of this book? Fine, I’ll get rid of it  _ right now! _ ” And he clicks the lighter, holding it to the corner of the journal.

“No!” Ford snatches the book from Stan. “You don’t understand!”

Stan is very angry. He takes the book back. “You said you wanted me to have it so I’ll do what I want with it!” It’s only logical. Ford likes logic, right?

For some reason, Ford screams, “My research!” and tackles Stan, who drops the journal. It skids across the floor. The scientist makes a move for it, but Stan trips him, grabs the book, and runs. Ford chases after him. “Stanley, give it back!” They make their way into the control room somehow, and Ford shoves Stan across a dashboard. Lights begin to flicker on as the scuffling men accidentally flick some levers.

Stan is in fight mode now. “You want it back,” he grunts as he shoves against Ford, “you’re gonna have to try harder than that!”

(Ford is stronger than he used to be. Stan wasn’t expecting that.)

In the background, a low hum reverberates around the room. The circle in the middle of the portal begins to glow blue.

Stan tries to pull the journal from Ford. (What’s so important about it, anyway? It’s just a book.)  _ He’s so selfish. One minute he says I can have something, and the next he tries to take it back! It’s like our childhood dreams, all our promises...his friendship. _ “You left me behind!” he shouts. “It was supposed to be us forever! You  _ ruined my life! _ ” It was true, wasn’t it? Who had lots of money and a fancy house and lots of friends and everything he’d ever wanted? Not Stan.

“You ruined your own life!” Ford screams.

And then, there is a boot on Stan’s chest and he is pressed against something and it’s

_ hotpainhotpainhotpainpainp a i n oh god it h u r t s  _ and Stan is screaming and screaming and screaming and he can hear sizzling and smell burning meat (oh god is that his flesh?) and Ford is gasping and pulling his foot away but Stan can’t feel that he can’t feel anything except the white-hot pain across his shoulder and the pain of hunger that has been dulled to nothing but is still there and he has no energy, he’s on the ground, he can’t get up, and he hears “Stanley, ohmygosh, are you alright--?” and Ford sounds like he’s panicking but darkness edges around Stan’s vision and it’s

nothing.

*

Stan wakes up and  _ feels. _

His body is on fire. His shoulder throbs painfully. His stomach screeches for food. His head is pounding.

(What time is it? Where is he? Did Rico finally catch up to him?)

(No, wait.)

Stan bites his lip as a particularly intense wave of pain rolls over him, and he lets out a quiet whimper.

“Stanley! Oh, thank Moses you’re awake!”

(That’s right.)

“Go ‘way, Stanford. D’wanna talk to you.” His voice is like broken glass--sharp and rough and painful. Stan tries to roll over, lets out a strangled gasp of agony, and stops moving. “Bad plan.” He has no choice now but to look at his brother.

“Stanley,” Ford squeaks, “be careful! You can't reopen the...the...burn.”

“Ford…” Stan groans. “What happened?”

It's Ford's turn to bite his lip. “Stanley, you...I...we fought. And I might have...made a mistake.” He stares at the floor, then looks at Stan with eyes wide and brimming with guilt. “It was an accident!” he cries. “I didn't mean to--Stanley, don't look at me like that, I would never hurt you on purpose! Not like that!”

Stan stares at his twin. Then, he starts to laugh. It’s wheezy and painful and sickening, completely void of any humor or joy. It’s flavored by bitterness and sown with salt. “Yeah, but you did.” He sits up, slowly, agonizingly, feeling his muscles straining and stretching (he was so stiff how long had he been out). “Not...not directly, but you did.”

He has no shirt on and his burn has gauze taped hastily to it, he can feel it on his skin, and he displays his pale, freckled body to his brother. “You see this?” he asks, pointing to the constellations of scars on his arms and chest and sides. “Each of these. You let it happen. I…” His voice cracked. “I died every day, every damn day, people were trying to  _ kill me _ and I was already dead, and then you send me a damn  _ postcard _ and I think ‘oh, Stanford’s finally come to his senses, maybe he actually took his head out of his ass and realized that his school project wasn’t something to  _ kill his twin over _ ,’ but no, you drag me here and distance me and yell at me and call me worthless and you  _ brand me _ and it’s just another scar, Stanford, and I….” He can’t help it, his eyes and nose are leaking and it sucks, it fucking  _ sucks _ but he doesn’t care anymore, “I want to hate you but I  _ can’t…. _ ” He sinks back to the mattress and pulls the sheets over his face and he cries and he cries

and Stanford just sits there and his mind is blank and his face is blank except for a tiny rivulet of salt water that trails down his right cheek slowly, slowly, slowly.

And he stands up from the chair he had been slumped in, and slowly, slowly he leaves the room, and he shuts the door to the bedroom and then slides down and buries his face into his knees and bawls like a baby and doesn't know why (because he’s angry of course he is he's so angry at Stan it's all he's felt towards him for ten years so why does he feel so broken) and when he is done he goes downstairs and sits at his messy, cluttered kitchen table and considers actually tidying it up for once because it would be Something To Do, and then he considers making Stan something to eat because

_ Stan was never thin, or light, he was always round and thick and heavyset and strong. He was a boxer with strong arms and strong legs and a thick belly. _

But when Ford picked Stan up and carried him upstairs from the portal room, Stan weighed almost nothing. Ford had been concerned then, of course, but then he had been even more concerned about the insignia that had been melted into his brother’s flesh (that he had melted into his brother’s flesh).

Ford stands and paces the kitchen, one two three four, one two three four, completes three laps, searches his cabinets, swears (something Fiddleford would have chided him for if Fiddleford were still around), searches once more through his cabinets, swears again, and decides that he really needs to do some grocery shopping.

Finally he finds a can of condensed chicken soup and decides that yes, this has a lot of nutritional value and Stan would find it pleasing and maybe would stop crying and eat something and get better. So he dumps the contents of the can into a kettle and puts the kettle onto the stove and turns the stove on and miraculously it works, it hasn’t been used in months except as a place to put specimens and he lets it heat until it’s on the edge of boiling and then he splits it into two bowls and heads upstairs again and hopes that his brother isn’t asleep and isn’t crying.

He, by some miracle of Fate, or mercy of the cosmos, or whatever he’s decided to believe in today, gets his wish. His brother is awake, and he isn’t crying. Instead, he’s lying on his side, facing away from the door, his bandaged shoulder clearly visible and sending a stab of guilt through Stanford, who softly says, “Stanley?” and waits for some sort of response.

Stan flinches slightly but says nothing.

“I...I’ve brought you something to eat,” Ford continues cautiously.

This gets a rather positive response. Stan makes a hum of approval and gently turns over to look at his brother, who holds up a bowl with a hopeful expression. Stan sits up--slowly--and leans back gingerly against the arm of the couch that has been, until lately, Ford’s bed. “What’s it?” he asks.

“Chicken soup.”

“Mmm.” Stan makes grabby hands. “Gimme.”

Ford’s face eases into a relieved smile and he hands the bowl to Stan, who grabs the spoon and digs in with gusto, letting out a surprised noise three spoonfuls in when his nerves catch up to his hunger and remind him that yes, hot soup would burn his tongue. “Ow,” he protests. “Ya could've warned me that you were feeding me lava before you let me start eating.”

Ford shrugs, the smile on his face tilting upward more. “I would have if you'd let me speak before you started eating.”

“Hey, cut me some slack,” Stan complains, “I'm hungry! I haven't eaten for…” He counts mentally. “Three days.”

Ford almost drops his own bowl on the floor. “Three days?” he splutters, and another knife of guilt stabs into his heart (another tick on the list of things he has to work out with his warring emotions).

Stan shrugs. “Eh, I've had worse.” (He plays it off as nothing but it’s been so bad before, he remembers hunger pains so bad he curled up and cried, it's been so bad that once he almost ate paper, it's been so bad that he used to have to)

Stan stops thinking about how bad it's been before.

Ford isn't hungry anymore, but he insists, “Eat then...please.”

And Stan does, hesitantly at first and then, when the soup cooled down, gulping it down so fast that Ford doesn't have time to warn Stan before

Stan retches, and vomits all over himself, the sheets, and his bowl. He groans when he’s finished, and starts weakly apologizing for the mess (the mess he made in his brother's house when he isn't even welcome there oh god this is humiliating) but Ford cuts him off by setting his untouched bowl on the chair and rushing over to help Stan from under the filthy sheets and to the bathroom to clean him up.

“S-sorry, sorry,” Stan hiccups, sitting on the lid of the toilet and sniffling a little (he isn't going to cry he isn't he _ isn't _ ) while Ford cleans the vomit from his chest with a damp washcloth.

“Don’t be,” Ford replies absently. “I don’t mind that much.” He sighs nostalgically. “Remember when you got sick in the middle of English in eighth grade? I took you to the nurse and helped you clean up then, too. This isn’t any different.”

“It’s n-not just th-this...I sh-shouldn’t be h-here, you don’t w-want me here. I’ll t-take your book and g-g-go.” (He feels like this is the best option because Ford hates him and he’s worthless of course he is but maybe he can do something important for once instead of smuggling drugs or selling his a-)

“No.”

The word is soft and sad like a drizzling rain or a grey ocean or an abandoned child. The word is final and deliberate like a one-night stand or a sudden divorce or a deer’s last gasps on the side of the road. It makes Stan freeze and shudder and it makes a sob rise up in his aching throat.

“No,” Ford repeats. “You should stay here. At least for a while. It will be good for me to...have some human contact.”

Stan’s lips quirk up against his will. “S-still a huge nerd,” he snorts.

Ford rolls his eyes. “And you’re still an idiot.”

Shrugging, Stan’s eyes fall to the floor. “I know.” He laughs a little; the sound is dry and cracked. “You were always the brainiac.”

Brainiac.  _ Brainiac. BRAINIAC. _ The word screams through Ford’s mind in the awful nasal voice and he winces, stumbles, his knees hit the tile floor, and he clutches his head and tries to make that voice  _ go away go away go away _ (just you wait I’ll get that portal open I’ll escape one day Brainiac and then you’ll see then you’ll see how a dimension PARTIES of course your friends’ll be turned inside out and used as party favors but hey at least you’ll have me you don’t need anyone else what about Fiddlesticks what ab--)

“S-Stanford?” Stan’s voice says and Ford’s mind says  _ Stan’s not here Stan hates you he’s never gonna save you _ and then his mind does a double-take and says  _ Stan’s here Stan’s here Stan’s here he’ll help you _ and he looks up at his twin and he bites his lip and he apologizes weakly and tells his brother it’s nothing but inside he knows his mind is slipping slipping slipping

“I’m fine,” he says in the voice of a person who is not-fine.

“Okay,” Stan says in the voice of a person who knows it’s not okay.

The brothers are broken glass, and they know they need each other, although they don’t know why.

(Okay, they know why. Stupid, stupid hope. That’s why.)


	2. Awakening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are many awakenings, of varying kinds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here, have this poorly-edited chapter which I churned out so fast my fingers cramped.  
> Warning for suicidal ideation and mild panic attacks.

Ford is afraid of sleep. Night comes thick and fast and pushes Stan’s head under the quiet waters of slumber, and Ford fights it. (stay awake stay awake can't let Him get Stan stay awake)

To keep himself from succumbing to the tempting peace and the pain that will inevitably come with it, he decides he will clean something. So he stands in the center of his kitchen and considers which he should tidy first.

The dishes, he concludes, and approaches the full sink with some trepidation. There certainly are a lot. How long has it been since he’s washed them? (it surely hasn't been that long but some of those plates look like they could be alive)

“Well, there's no time like the present,” Ford declares to nobody (he hopes), and, rolling up his sleeves, gets to work.

By the time he's done his arms and hands ache and he's gone through four dishrags, but there is a stack of clean plates, bowls, glasses, cutlery, and various pots and kettles that remind him that he's actually done something useful (and maybe healthy).

He can't quite remember when he last had dishes this clean. Has it really been since before Fiddleford left that he's actually done the dishes? (He doesn't really want to think about that, it's yet another guilty stab into his already overwhelmed heart)

_ No, no, don't think about that, find something else to do, don't think just do because if you think then He’ll have an advantage and if He has an advantage then Stan's in danger and he's had enough of that for a lifetime _

So Ford moves on to another task: he declutters the table. He throws out papers and stacks up books and throws more dishes into the sink and he makes a small pile of all his doodles of Him (which he’ll burn later probably) and then he organizes the books and washes the dishes and scrubs the table until it gleams like the kettles and then he stands back and thinks, I should tidy the counters, so he does that next. Books, papers, dishes, doodles, food items, containers. Scrub, organize, step back, reorganize, move on.

When he finally finds nothing else to do in his kitchen it is six in the morning. He slumps in a chair and allows himself to be exhausted for a little while (let Stanley sleep he’s been through so much already) and his mind wanders.

_ Hey, Sixer, long time no see! _

/Bill./

_ Wow, harsh. Don’t you use that tone of thought on me, MISTER. _

/What do you want?/

_ What do you think I want? I want that PORTAL OPENED. _

/I’ll never open that portal for you!/

_ Oh, but you will. ONE OF THESE DAYS, I’ll escape. And when I do, you’ll be soooorrrryyy! _

/I will do whatever it takes to keep you from entering this world!/

_ WHATEVER IT TAKES? _ His voice has taken on a deep, deep timbre that resonates throughout Stanford’s entire consciousness.  _ ARE YOU SURE ABOUT THAT? _

/Absolutely! You will  _ never _ have dominion here!/

_ We’ll see about that, IQ. WE’LL SEE. _

Stanford’s eyes fly open (when had he fallen asleep stupid stupid stupid) and he lets out a strangled cry and he looks at the time, an hour, an entire hour he’d slept, what was he thinking, how could have been so thoughtless and

he freezes.

There are footsteps on the stairs. They’re stumbling, unsteady, and falter more than once, but still they come.  _ It’s Bill it’s Bill he’s got Stan he’s coming for me what do I do what do I do he’s got Stan he’s got _

“Stanford?” The voice is a croak. It isn’t shrill, it doesn’t shriek. It rasps like feet dragging over gravel. “Stanford, ya down there?”

“Stanley,” Ford breathes, and his tense posture relaxes once more. “Stanley,” he repeats, louder. “Go back to bed.”

“Couldn’t sleep,” Stan mutters. “Worried about ya.”

“Worried about--about me?” (Why?)

“Yeah. Ya looked like ya haven’t slept in weeks, and then I got up and you weren’t there and I was wondering if--”

“I’m  _ fine, _ ” Ford says tersely. “Go back to bed, Stanley.”

Stan’s lips go tight, tight across his face, drawing into a thin, barely-pink line of tension and he nods and mutters a quiet “Yeah, sure” before he turns and begins walking (dragging himself) back up the steep wooden staircase.

“Ah--Stanley,” Ford falters, standing up quickly (too quickly you’re exhausted).

“Yeah?” A clipped, short syllable. Tense as the broad shoulders, the muscular back. Tense as the puckered scar tissue along the brawny arms. Tense as six jittery fingers tapping restlessly on the table.

What was I going to say? Ford belatedly thinks.

“Stanley,” he says again, and this time he notes an edge of pleading to his tone. “Don’t...don’t worry about me, alright?”

Stan laughs, and the sound is harsh and bitter. It almost doesn’t sound like a laugh at all. “Right,” he says. “Don’t worry about ya. Got it.” And then he’s gone, vanished into the bedroom, and the door is closed with a click that sounds louder than a slam.

Ford’s knees almost buckle as the weight of--what emotion is it? He isn’t sure--suddenly hits him. He staggers and catches himself on the kitchen table, six-fingered ( **_freakish_ ** ) hands clutching the edge tight, tight,  _ too tight _ until his knuckles are white and his nails (bitten to the quick) scrape against the scratched varnish.

_ Was it something I said? _ he thinks, and then realizes he’s just said that aloud.

_ I’ve been alone for too long, _ he thinks, and then realizes he’s just said that aloud, too.

_ You’re never alone, _ a shrill little voice cackles in the back of his mind. He clamps down on it, crushing it, sweeping it under the rug.

“Stop it,” he says, his voice and command weak.

He has to get Stan out of here. His brother’s not safe with him. He’s going to make sure his brother’s burn heals up, and then he’s going to hand Stan the Journal and get him away from this place. At least Stan would be safe. Relatively speaking.

But he’s so thin. And he doesn’t ever show emotions on his face, and he doesn’t make jokes, and he doesn’t laugh, and his face is hard and worn and...bitter. Flat. Empty.

His mind says,  _ This isn't Stan.  _ And he ignores it.

And Ford wonders where Stan’s been living for the past ten or so years. And how he’s been living. He’d occasionally seen infomercials with his brother’s face in them in the past--although under different names--and he’d seemed to be doing alright but...this isn’t the Stanley from the commercials. This Stanley is different. Far different.

Would he survive if Ford sent him away?

_ He’s survived this long, _ something that’s not-quite-Ford says. 

He agrees, tentatively. But surviving isn’t...living, he argues.

_ But it’s enough. We’re just surviving right now, too, _ not-Ford replies.

His right eye hurts. He blinks, blinks, b l i n k s, and something trickles down the side of his face. Something damp and viscous. He touches his cheek and his fingers come away red, he swears in a high-pitched voice because it’s  _ bleeding again _ and he’s so terrified he doesn’t know what to do he doesn’t know what to do doesn’t know doesn’t know doesn’t

and he’s on his knees and pulling at his hair as he fights against the demon (you used to say  **m u s e** ) in his mind who’s pushing to get through and he doesn’t know how but he must have made a noise because there’s suddenly a broad, awkward hand on his back rubbing circles like it used to when he was young and living by the beach and it feels so familiar and  _ right _ that he lets out a scream and shoves his consciousness against Bill’s and sends him careening back into his Mindscape.

“Stanford!” Stan yells, his voice laced with panic. “Stanford, are you okay?”

Ford pants, coughs once (ignore the flecks of blood that come from your throat), wipes at his face (which only smears the blood from his eye across his cheek), and looks up at Stan. His twin’s face is filled with such genuine concern that for a moment a sob rises in Ford’s throat and almost makes its way out.

Almost.

“I’m f--” he manages before Stan lets out a yelp and exclaims, “Your eye!”

“What?” Ford asks frantically, his mind screaming  _ panicpanicpanic _ . “What’s wrong? Is it yellow? Is the pupil wrong? Is it--?”

“It’s  _ bleeding! _ ” Stan almost shouts. “What happened?”

“I, uh…” Ford trails off.

“Stanford,” Stan says more quietly, “what’s going on? You’re skinny, you look like you haven’t slept in at least a week and smell like you haven’t showered in twice that long, you’re paranoid--heck, you attacked me with a crossbow!--and then there’s that portal thing, and now your eye’s bleeding. Talk to me,” he begs.

“Stanley! I’m  _ fine! _ ” Ford insists. “I’m more concerned with you! You, you barely weigh anything, you’re dehydrated, you’re wounded, you’re filthy, you’re covered in scars which--do I even want to know where you got some of those?--you mentioned going to jail in three different countries, you look like you haven’t showered in  _ years, _ and you’re, you’re, I don’t know,” he stammers, his words tripping over each other, “empty!” And then he claps a hand over his mouth because he didn’t mean for that to come out, he didn’t mean to say any of that.

Stan’s entire body freezes. He stares in wide-eyed astonishment at Ford, who crouches on the floor with heaving shoulders and a feeling of shockpainhorror in his soul.

And as Ford watches, Stan's body deflates. His once-panicked eyes lose their frantic light, his arms fall to his sides, his shoulders slump. His face slackens and he once more is nothing but a shell. “What’s it to you?” he asks quietly, flatly.

“W-well,” Ford stammers, “I'm your brother.”

“I don't need your pity.” Stan’s spine curls over. “I don't need your help.”

“I never--”

“You did.” Stan stands and trudges up the stairs, leaving a hole in Stanford’s universe.

When Ford calls his name, he doesn't look back.

*

Stan is leaving.

He doesn't know where he's going, but he's leaving. Soon, he hopes. As soon as his head stops spinning whenever he stands. As soon as the pain in his shoulder dulls. As soon as possible.

Stan is leaving.

He’s gonna take Ford’s weird nerd book, of course. He’s not gonna make this visit totally useless. He's gonna grab the book and get out. Take it somewhere far, far away. Maybe he’ll tie a rock to it and drop it into the ocean.

Maybe he'll do that to himself, too.

It’s not like anyone would miss him. Except Rico, of course, but only because of debts.

But nobody important would miss him  ~~ except his mother ~~ ~~.~~ He, as far as he cares, is alone. And that's okay with him, he doesn't need anyone. He's never needed anyone.

~~ Except maybe his twin. ~~

Never.

*

Stanford’s left hand taps out an anxious rhythm on the kitchen table as he sits, slumped forward, deep in thought, leaning his forehead on the heel of his right hand and pressing the elbow almost painfully into the sticky varnish. Everything hurts. His head, his eye, his arms, his hands, his back, his legs, his heart, his mind, his soul. Those last three kind of drown out the others, though.

He hasn’t hurt like this since Stan was thrown out. It’s an all-encompassing emotional ache that fogs his mind, clenches his heart, and dims his soul. It tells him the things that his brain deduced but his mind refused to believe (oh god was Stan really homeless for ten years? No way). It shrieks like a gale and whispers nasty little things like 

(you fucked up he hates you and no wonder you’ve hurt him so many times he’s almost  _ died _ because of you didn’t you see that scar below his rib cage somebody  _ shot your brother _ )

And Ford knows it’s true and that’s why his shoulders heave and his lungs constrict and his eyes sting and a sob tears itself from his throat like it was stuck there with adhesive and someone ripped it out and his hand slides from his forehead and his head falls forward and hits the table but he doesn’t care, he just lets the whimpering sobs come and come and come and it hurts like nothing’s hurt before and finally he’s cried out and there’s a salty puddle on the table and his face feels sticky with the salt and mucus that’s dried on it and his glasses are spotty and smudged and he sighs, sniffles, lets the last hiccup escape his aching lungs, and then wipes his face and glasses and goes to check on Stan.

*

Stan flings open the door, burned T-shirt and jacket rumpled on his body, only to find Stanford standing there, fist poised to knock. “S-Stanley?” Ford says in a weird, shaky voice that Stan hasn’t heard in more than ten years.

“Stanford,” Stan acknowledges, tilting his head coolly.

“What’re you doing?”

Ford looks awful. Stan ignores that.

“Leaving.” He goes to brush past Ford.

“N-no, you can’t!” There’s something in Ford’s eyes, Stan thinks. Something desperate.

“You wanted me to,” he mumbles.

“Not...not yet.” Ford shakes his head, slow and desperate. “Not yet, Stan, you’re not better yet.”

Stan scoffs. “I’ve driven around with worse than a--a little burn,” he says, stumbling over the word ‘burn’.

“You--you shouldn’t!” Ford protests. “It’s not--”

Ford bites his lip, looks at the floor, and Stan feels just a little bit of the determination leave him, as well as a lot of his energy. “Not safe,” Ford finishes lamely, and Stan has to choke off a laugh because nothing’s been safe for him for ten years, that kind of comes with being homeless, but Ford doesn’t know he was homeless, certainly not homeless for ten years, and he wants to keep it that way.

Stan realizes he’s swaying, and the world is starting to tilt around him, and there is darkness on the edges of his vision and he suddenly feels really cold except his burn which is hot, hot, hot, and Ford’s eyes grow wide and then his face is swirling into a vortex of color and the floor is suddenly coming up to meet Stan and it’s like

nothing.

*

“...ley...ke up...Stan…”

Stan’s eyes crack open slightly to see his twin’s tear-streaked face gazing pleadingly down at him. The expression on his brother’s face changes, shifting into a relieved smile. “Thought you weren't gonna wake up,” he comments thickly.

“Wha...how long…” Stan slurs. His head is pounding and his vision flickers, and he’s so, so cold. He realizes belatedly that he's shivering.

“Almost eight hours. I thought you were…” Ford stops himself. “Stan, your burn...it's infected.”

Stan utters some colorful swear words under his breath.  _ There go all my plans. _

He feels scaredcoldangry. The only one he expresses is “Cold,” to which Ford responds by whipping out a blanket and throwing it across Stan, who quickly curls up under it, tucking it around himself and cocooning into it. Stan mumbles something that might be a “thank you” but he makes sure he says it too quietly for Ford to make out. He turns his face away and tries to disappear.

“I have...done my best to tend to it with the limited medical supplies I have, but….” Ford purposely avoids Stan’s eyes. “If this gets much worse I will have to get you professional care.”

Stan sits bolt upright, almost vomits, closes his eyes until he’s no longer dizzy, shakes his head vigorously, and says emphatically, “No. No way. There is no way you’re taking me to a hospital.”

“Stanley--”

“ _ No, _ Stanford.” Stan slowly lays back down, pulling the blanket up to his ears and curling into the corner between the arm and back of the couch.

Ford sighs. “Alright, fine.” He rubs at his eyes under his glasses, exhausted. “Are you hungry?”

Stan shakes his head.

“Are you sure?”

Stan hesitates, then nods.

“I’ll make some lunch.”

Stan makes a noise of protest.

“Don’t argue with me, you’re forgetting who the older twin is.”

Stan says something that sounds like  _ by fifteen minutes, you nerd. _ It makes Ford laugh, despite the situation.

Then Ford leaves the room and heads to the kitchen to scrounge up something vaguely nutritious for lunch.

*

_ Infected. _

Stan knows the pain of an infected wound, and he knows the danger of it. He’s experienced infection on more than one occasion, and on more than one occasion has just barely pulled through. 

_ He remembers cold cold nights, barely pulling through as someone tends to the bullet wound just under his ribs, half-delirious words slurring from his mouth as he asks them if he’s going to die, and then waking up one day to find himself in his car on the side of the highway as if nothing had ever happened. _

_ He remembers clumsily stitching up an oozing gash on his calf, the taste of blood in his mouth, the smell of pus in his nose. It was hot, hot, hot in Arizona and the sweat made his scrapes sting. He remembers lying back on the cracked asphalt of a disused back street and wishing he could die right there. He remembers someone coming along and holding a conversation with him that made him get back in his car and keep going. _

He wonders if that conversation would keep him from flinging himself off a bridge tomorrow.

His shoulder throbs painfully, a reminder that he wouldn’t have to throw himself off a bridge for him to die. Although, he thinks, throwing himself off a bridge would be an easier, quicker death than infection.

He shivers as a wave of chills sweeps over him. He’s so, so cold. He wonders if he’d even be able to drive without wrapping himself around a tree.

_ Another quick, easy death _ , his mind supplies, a dark and flat voice droning into his thoughts.

_ But it wouldn’t get rid of that damn book, _ he argues.

_ Forget the book, why should you help your brother? He’s done nothing for you but make everything worse! _

_ Well, he’s taking care of us now, _ something inside him says, something quieter and softer.

_ What about it? I thought we wanted to die! _

_ Not all of us. _

It's a little voice, faint and weak, but it's there, and it catches Stan’s attention. This little voice reminds Stan a lot of the Arizona stranger, the one who talked to him and listened as he  explained (sobbed) about his problems and his daddy issues and his homelessness, and then said things that put Stan’s tumultuous emotions at a temporary peace. Despite himself, Stan finds himself drawn once more to this little voice.

_ So, if we decide not to die, _ Stan begins.

_ Yet,  _ interjects the dark voice.

_ Yet, _ Stan amends.  _ If we decide not to die yet, what do we do? We can’t just mooch off of Ford. _

_ Find out what’s wrong. Try to help him. And let him help you, _ the little voice suggests.

Stan doesn’t argue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave some kindness in the comments if you enjoyed this!

**Author's Note:**

> Leave some kindness in the comments if you enjoyed!


End file.
